


On the Pecking Order

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [3]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: in every herd and every pack, there is a clear pecking order, and even among the predators there is a clear division between the dominant and the subordinate. The pecking order is determined and maintained by threat displays, and sometimes, open combat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Pecking Order

**Author's Note:**

> Another chapter from the writing team of TheMasterPlanner and The-Crazy-Geek

***

The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: in every herd and every pack, there is a clear pecking order, and even among the predators there is a clear division between the dominant and the subordinate. The pecking order is determined and maintained by threat displays, and sometimes, open combat.

***

The Chinese have a curse: _May you live in interesting times._ For the Right Honourable Nicola Murray MP, times at the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship had become extremely interesting indeed.

"So, what is the deal with Sam and Malcolm anyway? You even mention her name to him and he goes completely insane!" Nicola was down to her last person to question before she asked Sam herself. Which she’d rather not do because if Malcolm got wind of that, well...she rather suspected a locked storeroom or lift would be in her immediate future. The Director of Communications knew her weaknesses. He knew everybody’s, including those of the man currently slouched in a chair with his feet on her desk.

"Yeah, he does," drawled Jamie MacDonald, senior press officer and Malcolm Tucker’s unofficial second. "And trust me, ye do _not_ want tae get in between them." He rubbed absently at an old scar on his arm as he spoke, a memento of the only time Jamie tried to make a move on Sam. What Nicola was doing was akin to poking at a caged hawk with a stick. Ach, well, it's her funeral.

Nicola was getting sick of this runaround. "Is she his daughter or something? Because that I could understand, but every other woman here is to be either ignored, bollocked, or--"

"Or taken up tae the roof an’ fucked halfway tae Sunday? Aye, I saw your little tryst with him, just be grateful he didn’t try tae woo you with two dead rabbits and a half digested fox like he does tae some people."

Nicola went green at that thought. _Fuck me,_ Jamie sighed to himself, _why do I have to deal with all this fucking shite?_ "Are ye going tae leave this matter the fuck alone, Murray?"

"No," she squared her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye, "I’ll get the truth from Sam if I have to."

"That’ll sign your fucking death warrant, ye stupid bint. If ye upset Sam, which by the way those kind of questions will, then we’ll be writing your _Times_ obituary two hours later." Jamie rolled his eyes and picked at a fingernail while he thought. Malcolm may be the expert, but Jamie was no slouch either--he couldn’t be to work for him--and right now his instincts were telling him to get this minister to shut up.

Violence or information, though? Jamie felt almost sick at the idea of punching a lass so…

"She’s his, alright?"

"His? His what?"

"Don’t be so fucking dense woman, she belongs tae him. If ye want to get technical about it, then he belongs tae her."

Nicola was still confused. "Jamie, I’m going to need a bit more explanation than that."

Stupid woman. _Ach well, if she goes blabbing to anyone about this they’ll never fucking believe it,_ Jamie thought. _Just tell her enough tae get her tae shut the fuck up._

"They’ve been promised tae each other fer years. Suppose ye could call it like an arranged marriage deal, except it’s not like that at all." He unhooked his legs from the desk and stood up. "It’s more politics, and I’m not saying shite about why they are nae joined, but I will say this..." He leaned over the desk towards Nicola and was gratified to see her shrink back in fear.

Jamie’s eyes could have bored holes into Nicola’s and his voice held a steel edge. _"Never fucking ask him why she does’nae fly."_

Nicola stared for a few seconds until the light bulb turned on, the puzzle pieces clicked into place, and all the other clichés used to describe sudden inspiration applied. "You...you mean there are more like him? People with wings?"

Jamie was already walking away, heading back to the press office, but he stopped in his tracks. "Ach, I've already fucking said too much. See, we're nae supposed to talk about Flock matters 'round the Wingless folks..."

_Fuck!_ He needed to put the lid back on the kettle, fast. Not that he gave a wad of wet _Daily Mail_ what happened to Murray, but he'd already learned his own unpleasant lesson in the hazards of divulging the secrets of the Winged--those flying humanoids who ruled the earth and skies for as long as history recorded, once worshipped as demigods and angels by the Wingless they now hid among.

***

"Jamie was fucking lucky that he escaped with only a stern lecture from Screaming Lord Crutch about the need to keep his fucking facehole shut," Malcolm had said while relating the story to his personal assistant. "The first time I caught him opening his big gob to a Wingless reporter, I fucking plucked him myself. Every last fucking crow's feather on him. Used them to fill my fuckin' feather pillows at home."

A Wingless person would have winced, but Sam Cassidy remained stoic. Such was the ruthless world of the Winged.

"They fucking grew back in a coupla weeks, anyway," Malcolm felt the need to reassure her. And the new feathers were even more beautiful than before--jet black, tipped and speckled with the bright orange-red of an open flame.

***

Jamie had blown back into Malcolm’s life about six months ago, in a flurry of black wings. He’d surprised his erstwhile boss by dropping pieces of fresh rabbit onto the auld git’s head one evening until he looked up. He’d then landed next to Malcolm, flicked a wing against him hard enough to make him stumble and then taken off again.

Malcolm had chased him through a good twenty miles of nighttime forests before Jamie back winged and settled on the grass. They both sat there for a while, wings draped down their sides as they panted for breath. When Jamie had noticed that his wingspan was about half a meter larger than Malcolm's, he'd started cackling.

"Oh yes, very fucking mature. A joke like that’s such low-hanging fruit, it’s actually a fucking root vegetable."

He’d taken Jamie home that night. Malcolm Tucker had looked a long time for someone who shared his rather unusual...condition. He'd never expected said someone to be a black-winged ex-priest from Motherwell.

***

"Have ye seen the new polling data, Malc?" Jamie had raced back to the press office after an urgent call from Malcolm interrupted his little chat with Nicola Murray.

Malcolm didn't even look up from his smartphone at his second. "As ya know, I prefer to conduct my own polling by the means of consulting the fucking entrails of chickens I've personally ripped apart, and then reading the tea leaves I fucking force-fed them beforehand."

"The approval numbers are still--"

"Right, the polls mean exactly fuck-all." Malcolm put away the mobile and started flipping through a rather thick file of paperwork. "This approval ratings rise looks to me like the public having a postcoital fag after their first good fucking and still basking in the afterglow. But no poll actually fucking puts us ahead, none. When we're five points up in the ratings, then we can start breaking out the fucking Curly Wurlys and saying winter is over in Narnia, yes?"  

"So why the fuck am I here, then?"

Malcolm stepped forward, until Jamie was nearly backed into the wall.

"Right, about that, I know it was you who leaked Tuesday's data. You fucking _traitor_. I ought to have you fucking drawn and quartered and the parts set on pikes on the fucking Buckingham Palace lawn."

"I told ya I wasn't supporting that self-important cockmongler of a 'moderate' candidate _you_ had. Miller tells me he can save the Party--"

"What, did he get appointed Messiah of the Party by a fucking burning hairy bush? A choir of angels hath spoken unto him, and he hath divined the need to bang his own micropecker against a rock? Give me a fucking break."

"I could get one of those fucking Japanese receptionist robots against him in a debate and it'll look more lively than your guy."

"It's better than hearing yer candidate spend an interview screeching like a fucking flamingo fed feet first through a fucking woodchipper."

"You know what the problem is? You're getting too fucking soft, Malc. Too fucking eager to compromise." Jamie shook his head. "Too ready to bend over and grab yer ankles at the first shot fired."

"Do ya know how fucking hard I work to make the Party palatable to this lot of tabloid-reading fucking bottom feeders we call the fucking voting public, that think the National Health Service grew from a magical fucking NHS tree? I think, MacDonald," Malcolm's voice dropped to a near-whisper, low and very dangerous, "you are forgetting just who is in fucking charge round here. Don't you _dare_ call me soft. On _anything_."

"Or what? You'll fucking fight me for it?" Jamie stepped closer to his boss, going on tiptoe so he could more properly glare at the taller man. "Ya want to oil up and get busy then? I promise I'll give ya a proper Glasgow pub fight of it."

Jamie had been spoiling for a fight for days. It was long past time he was reminded of his proper place in the pecking order. "So it's the fucking rooftop, then?"

Jamie was already stripping off his suit jacket and heading to the stairs.

Better to take care of this now, before the pint-sized psychopath started kicking the fucking fax machines again. Malcolm wasn't sure why the office still had a fucking fax machine, actually. Presumably in case anyone needed to communicate with Mr BJ Whackcock in Norfolk, the sole other surviving user of the fax machine.

***

Malcolm traced a circle around the younger Scot with his steps, almost as if to mark his territory, and with a pulse of strength, quickly flared his dove grey wings outward to their full span. They were stunning, sharp and sleek and almost silvery in the moonlight, eighteen feet of pure Glaswegian intimidation. The display of power was meant to terrify and impress.

Jamie, however, was neither. "Ha! I'm nae scared o' an overgrown fucking pigeon, ye auld grey cunt!" He opened his own wings in response: magnificent black wings, tipped with scarlet, orange, and amber, speckled like sparks of flame against a night sky. What he wouldn't give for a glass bottle and a few pool cues right about now...

Suddenly, Malcolm sprinted across the rooftop and leapt into the air, wings pushing him high above the Westminster architecture. He hovered, waiting and watching for Jamie, waiting to attack. With a snarl, Jamie stretched his wings and swooped across the roof and into the sky, following.

In a swirl of black and grey, the fight began. From a distance they looked like moths twisting and circling in moonlight.

Jamie threw the first punch, and almost roared in rage as he missed. "I'm going to pluck yer fuckin' pigeon feathers out and push them up yer _cock_ , until yer wings are bare as Nicholson's big fucking baby head!"

"You lay a fucking finger on my feathers and I'll yank out yer fucking intestinal tract through yer navel, and hang it up the press office ceiling like a fucking fluttering pink and brown party streamer!"

Malcolm led him a harsh dance, swooping very close to power lines and phone transmitters like a slalom in the sky. He wound Jamie up even more by circling around him just far enough out of reach and then laughing that patronising laugh of his when Jamie couldn't change direction fast enough to give his boss a well-deserved punch. Malcolm repeatedly dove and struck, harrying Jamie, darting at him, circling him, almost teasing him. What Malcolm lacked in sheer breadth of wing he more than made up for in agility, speed, and the clean efficiency of his flight technique, not a motion wasted.

Malcolm finally landed a solid blow to Jamie's eye, knocking him back twenty paces. Jamie tumbled through the air, ears ringing and eyes watering, spots of light dancing in his field of vision, until, recovering his bearings, pushed himself forward and turned in a midair somersault until he could gain enough momentum to barely dodge again as Malcolm pressed his opportunity and swooped in for the kill.

But Jamie was far more adept than he seemed, and finally he launched himself at Malcolm, rugby-tackling him with a force that threw him to the roof. Malcolm lay still, stunned and dizzy from the force of the fall.

"Showing yer age already, eh Malc?" Jamie laughed, descending and walking over to the communications director. He was trembling with the effort, brown hair damp with sweat, breathing heavy and ragged.

Jamie stood over Malcolm and drew his wings back, preparing a choice volley of profane insults and highly creative threats (most of them involving various objects inserted forcibly into various bodily orifices), when Malcolm kicked Jamie with inhuman strength, landing a direct hit to the stomach. Jamie buckled, looking as if he were about to be sick. Malcolm leapt to his feet and punched his underling in the jaw, his movements as precise as they were vicious. In a matter of seconds the older man had gained dominance over his opponent, pinning him to the rooftop.

"You wanted tae fuck me over in front of the Party, eh?" Malcolm hissed in Jamie’s ear, practically straddling him. "I think turnabout's fair fucking play."

Malcolm's tall, wiry frame was bare from the waist up, and the moonlight made his grey wings and close-cropped hair shine like quicksilver. He was nae a young bonnie lad, to be sure, but Malcolm Tucker positively radiated charisma and passion, and his predatory grace in flight was matched by none other among the Winged, as far as he knew. Most of all, Malcolm was the undisputed alpha male, the biggest bird of prey in Westminster.

And really, for some people, the line between fighting and fucking is a fine one indeed, and easily crossed.

***

Wiping a trickle of sweat off his forehead, Malcolm flicked it in Jamie's direction. "Did you not learn a few months ago not to _ever_ fucking mess with me?" Jamie's chest was still heaving from the exertion of the flight but he still managed to spit out a curse relating to Malcolm's ancestry and probable goat DNA being in there. Typical Jamie, even when he's flat on his fucking back _he will still fucking fight you._

"I plucked ye last time, what's to stop me doing it again? I could use some more fucking feather pillows 'round the house." The look in Malcolm's eyes was almost lethal and got worse when Jamie laughed in response.

"Because you want to fucking shag me instead. You fucking _poof_."

Malcolm's hand shot out and gripped Jamie between the legs with a grasp that was almost painful. "Don't try to lie to me boy, you're fucking harder than Latin algebra." He emphasised his point by pulling once on the hard ridge of flesh in Jamie's trousers; the strangled moan his underling gave was enough confirmation for Malcolm. He'd have the little two-faced shite beggin' before he was finished.

Begging for more or for mercy, Malcolm didn't really care right now. This wasn't about getting his end away (although after the fucking day he's had, a nice hard release would make things better), this was about reminding certain people of their place. He leaned down, grey wings draping on either side of him, and snarled in Jamie's ear:

"I am going to fucking fuck you to within an inch of your worthless life and then you are going to go back into that office with a fucking pinny on and clean that great lump of shit you curled off on my desk."

He was pleased to see the muscles in Jamie's neck ripple in response to his words and moved his hands up to grasp at the black feathers under him. Tugging at them hard enough to cause pain, but not hard enough to rip, caused Jamie to shift and swallow a moan. He'd never admit to Malcolm what being pinned down and dominated by a master of the wing did to him. They'll sooner put piss cakes in the fucking Princess Diana Memorial Fountain and rename it the People's Urinal.

Malcolm didn't need to be told, though. His long fingers carded through flame-tipped flight feathers and followed them toward Jamie's naked chest where he paused for a second and then pinched at a nipple.

Jamie swore. "Malc! For fuck's sake!"

A wicked grin from Malcolm. " _Now_ who's the fucking poof?"

There was no answer from Jamie, but then again, Malcolm wasn't expecting one. He merely continued his slow but harsh exploration of Jamie's body with fingers and tongue, stopping now and again to imprint small, firm, bite marks on pale exposed skin...bites of ownership, of domination, warning and promise. He knew Jamie would run his fingers along the ridges left by Malcolm's teeth later and moan quietly to himself, one hand on the marks and the other on his cock. He'd seen it.

Jamie gave a startled yelp as Malcolm ripped one of his jet black downy feathers clean off his body and brushed it up and down the skin of his naked chest. " _Never_ fucking go against me MacDonald," Malcolm snarled and then tore the small feather in two with his teeth. "Else next time I won't _let_ ye regrow any of these." Spitting out the torn fluff and releasing Jamie, Malcolm stood up and started unbuttoning his suit trousers. He didn't need to order Jamie to follow suit as the raven-winged press officer was already struggling out of his remaining clothes as soon as Malcolm had let go.

Within minutes, Jamie found himself stark naked, pushed by strong hands and bent over a concrete ventilation pillar – his hands touching the ground and facing downwards so his only view was of the roof, his arms, and the extended flight feathers of his wings on either side.

Malcolm was standing behind and above him, his own wings spread in threat display. He'd kicked Jamie's legs apart with characteristic harshness and was now pinning Jamie's wings down onto the cold surface – deliberately stretching the long muscles in both wings and leaning into the bones. When he leant in and ground his teeth into the nape of Jamie's neck, the younger Scot couldn't help the shudder that worked his way through him. Even a predator submits to a stronger specimen, and powerful though Jamie was, he was still submitting to Malcolm--lying under him, accepting the pain of Malcolm's grip and moaning at his bite – _Christ_ there really wasn't anything like it. Not casual sex with a Wingless, not even the warmth of a loving mate. Domination by another Winged.

"Did ye make yourself properly ready?" Malcolm asked Jamie, knowing the answer but still enjoying the feverish nodding that he got in return. He slipped a hand briefly down and around to see how much his cohort was enjoying this and was satisfied by the large hard erection he found there. "For all your fucking grandstanding, ye still get a hardon when ye got a Master on top of ye, eh? You fucking _tart_."

That raspy, whispering voice, with its brash Glaswegian accent, a voice he associated with power, with pain, with passion. It was all Jamie could manage to not come on the spot.

He still managed to choke out a few words. "Fuck you."

"Wrong way round, dickhead." Malcolm pressed up against Jamie's rear. " _I'm_ fuckin' _you_." He pressed forward hard and felt the ring of muscle tense for a while and then give in. With a long sigh he sank into Jamie's hot depths, pleased to discover that his cohort hadn't been lying; Jamie had obviously taken some time with some lube on his way up to the roof and was perfectly prepared for this – tight but slippery. Submissive but also resisting. Just how Malcolm liked him.

Malcolm set a punishing pace; gentle was never their style. No, he was fucking his senior press officer hard and fast and with enough force to cause bruising on a Wingless. Jamie's wings were still being held down by Malcolm's hands, which was excitement enough for Jamie anyway, but now he also had a neglected erection pounding with every beat of his racing heart. There was no way he could reach it from the position Malcolm was holding him in – _and the auld fuck knew_ _it too._

_Damn him!_

Jamie’s legs were trembling with the effort of holding position against Malcolm and from the heavy swelling growing ever harder between his legs. He prayed silently to all the saints he could remember that Malcolm would show some mercy and wrap his fingers around Jamie’s cock and finally, finally grant him sweet release but all that happened was that the auld fucker changed the angle of his thrusts – to rub against Jamie’s prostate. Explosions ran behind Jamie's eyes and he knew he was whimpering.

He couldn't take this, pride be damned. "Fucking touch me, you fucking CUNT!" Jamie screamed, not giving a fuck who might have heard. "Bring me the fuck off before I fucking kill ye!"

A soft, pleased grunt came from Malcolm and he leaned forward, chuckling wickedly into his press officer's ear. "Call me Master." He even slowed down, much to Jamie’s frustration. "Admit ye are far lower in the fucking pecking order than me. Come on Jamie, ye know what I want to hear."

He did, all right. It went against every fibre of Jamie’s being to say it though. He was a fierce ex-priest from Motherwell, not some simpering rent boy from Eton who drained balls like a fucking roto-rooter on crank. He shouldn't beg. Ma MacDonald didn't raise no weak lads. And Malcolm was just an auld fucking pigeon who strutted about Whitehall thinking he was an eagle.

Malcolm could sense the inner turmoil of the man under him and smirked to himself. It always went like this. Jamie's pride would fight a losing battle against his sexual desires and considerable libido and, in the end, Jamie would beg. He'd bend his head to Malcolm and admit that he was the weaker one, that Malcolm was indeed the King of the Fucking Roost. He always did, eventually.

But it was getting a bit chilly on this roof, and they both had a job to do, so he really wasn't in the mood for a prolonged fight with Jamie. Without changing pace, Malcolm reached down and around to firmly brush a long nimble finger up the length of Jamie’s cock and briefly flicked the head of it with his thumb before snatching his hand away and replacing it on one of Jamie’s wings. Then, maddeningly slowly, Malcolm began stroking Jamie's wings, right on their most sensitive places, right where the pale skin of his shoulder blades gave way to the soft black down feathers.

Predictably, Jamie’s reaction was titanic. He arched his back, screaming into the skies. Jamie MacDonald had never begged to come before in his fucking life--not until he'd met Malcolm _Fucking_ Tucker.

"JESUS fucking fuck ye fucking grey bastard of the skies, ye’re mai master okay! MASTER! M-A-S-T-E-R, my fucking lord and king, whatever -- now fer fucking Christ's sake, let me fucking come! _Please!_ "

"Good boy." Malcolm purred, softly chuckling to himself. Jamie would have felt a good deal of shame at the grovelling begging he'd just done if Malcolm hadn't at that moment gripped his cock and started pulling at it.

"You're mine," Malcolm growled as he thrust into Jamie and ran his long, elegant hand and fingers up and down his cock. "You’ll always be _mine_." He withdrew and then slammed back in again. Jamie just moaned, the pressure inside him mounting – all the more painfully intense for the waiting. Malcolm's husky voice hissed close to his ear. "You’re fucking loving it, aren't ye?" He pulled harder on Jamie. "Legs open under me and fucking begging for it, about tae be filled with my come, you fucking tart." Jamie didn’t answer, wasn’t capable of it, his teeth were clenched together as he crested the peak of his orgasm.

Jamie cried out, the wordless, inarticulate screech of a hawk ripping from his throat as he finally, blissfully came all over Malcolm’s hand in thick heavy waves. "Jesus," Malcolm whispered to himself as he raced faster to his own completion, Jamie panting and still spasming around him and god that felt good and--

"--Take it, fucking take it!" Malcolm groaned through gritted teeth as his hands tightened their grip on Jamie's feathers. "I’m coming!"

"Fucking _finally_ , ye great pigeon _cunt_!"

"Look at the fucking mess you've made, right?" Malcolm said, waving his sticky hand in front of Jamie's face. It wasn’t as though this would be the first time, but there was something unspeakably fucking humiliating about doing it this way. Still, after Malcolm had grabbed a fistful of Jamie's hair, he got the message. His tongue flicked out and, lapping at pale skin, he licked away any traces of his come off Malcolm's hand, ending with a teasing suck at the tip of Malcolm's index finger.

With an "Alright, that's enough of that, ye twat. Play time's over," Malcolm released his steel grip on Jamie and roughly tossed his rumpled clothing in his general direction.

***

After a quick straightening of his suit jacket, shirt, and tie, Jamie returned to the DoSAC office. Malcolm would follow him down in a few minutes, said something about hunting for a quick snack.

The first person he saw was Oliver Reeder, still at his desk and on his mobile. "Right, where's Harvey fucking Birdman? He asked me for some fresh ratings data--"

Jamie was very good at his job, and he (usually) enjoyed it very much. He smiled and headed to Ollie's desk, savoring the look of abject pants-pissing fear the little Poxbridge arse-licker gave him. He didn't know that it was even possible for Ollie to get any more fucking pale, really.

And when Malcolm got back, and when Jamie was finally through with him, Ollie would receive another unpleasant surprise. On the agenda tonight: the twats at the _Guardian_ were currently sitting on a story involving a finance minister caught charging the public expense account for the services of a "consultant"--who turned out to be actually a dominatrix who specialized in "the golden shower." Malcolm waved vaguely in Ollie's direction before walking out. "You, Justin Beaver, tonight you're staying at yer desk and being fed moulinexed Red Bull and Subway sandwiches through a fucking intravenous tube till ye hit pay dirt on anyone involved, right? I'm the only one who gets to fucking piss all over the politicians here." Ollie could only nod meekly and sit back down. Again, the weaker animal submits to the stronger.

Back to fucking business as usual, aye. Each member of the pack knew his place in the pecking order. Life in the concrete jungle that was Whitehall had returned once more to the natural state of things.

***

Jamie returned to his office the next morning to find a single feather on his desk--a silken, almost silvery dove grey flight feather as exquisite as its owner was dangerous.


End file.
